'You do have lovely feet.'
No one's ever told me that before. I'm flattered. And now I want to play.
Intent on gaining the upper hand, I press the ball of my foot into his crotch. He begins to stiffen immediately. I had hoped to outmanoeuvre him by making the first move, but he isn't taken aback by my forwardness. Redoubling my efforts, I grind my foot against him, caressing him through his trousers.
When I offer him the other foot he strips it of its shoe as well. The sandal falls to the floor with a soft thud. I place both feet on the growing bulge in his trousers and he sighs contentedly as I curl my toes against his hardness. I tease him, rubbing my legs against one another and enjoying the sibilant hiss of nylon.
But the stimulation doesn't ruffle his composure. With impossible nonchalance he says, 'I've been watching you, you know.'

'Fetch the cane.'
It was amazing, the way those
simple words could make her regret so much. The stress of the
demanding practice had made her reckless and insolent.
Hanging her head in shame, she
brought him the cane as she'd done so many times before. He nodded
towards the door and she went there, her feet dragging.
'I’ve clearly been too lenient
with you, boy' said Master Leighton. 'I've allowed you the protection
of your trousers whenever I've caned you. But in showing me such
blatant disrespect you've forfeited that right. Take them off.'
Alison's eyes were wide with
horror. Oh, what had she done? If he caned her without her trousers
he'd uncover her deception. He'd realise she was a girl. Then he
would turn her out.
'I'm waiting.'

'No,' she moaned softly, reaching back to stop him.
The silence deepened unbearably.
She felt his disapproval like a blow. Slowly, deliberately, he replaced her errant hand on the ledge. Aspen bowed her head, a wordless apology.
When he touched her again it was with the same uncanny stillness that had captivated her since she first saw him. She knew he was going to punish her. Her skin prickled with fear and need as her panties came down. He eased her out of them as he had her skirt. She knew the gusset would be soaked and she surrendered to the delicious misery of embarrassment.
One at a time he positioned her hands on the padded floor of the hearse, guiding her head down until her forehead touched the floor as well. The position raised her bottom up, a perfect target, and she moaned with shame.
Outside it had begun to rain. The water drummed violently on the roof of the Daimler like a tribal beat. Primitive and lust-driven. He made her wait. The seconds seemed like hours.

When she heard the second set of footsteps she felt as though the warders had come to escort her to the gallows. She remained where she was, kneeling like a penitent. Perhaps Lord Asquith would take pity on her in her wretched state.
A pair of knife-pleated black trousers stopped directly in front of her.
From behind, she heard Mr Bathurst's voice. 'Come on, girl. On your feet.'
Haley stumbled to her feet, unable to look up. She stared disconsolately at the floor.
'And so we meet again,' came the baritone voice of Lord Asquith.
'You know this girl, your Lordship?' Mr Bathurst asked, surprised.
Asquith chuckled. 'Our paths have crossed before.'
Haley cringed. She prayed he wouldn't tell Mr Bathurst the circumstances.
'How poetic,' he said in a sporting tone. 'This time you're the one covered in wine.'
She glanced down. The bright red stain on her apron might as well have been blood.
Asquith contemplated the row of bottles on the floor. 'Tell me something, Haley. Are you wearing knickers this time?'

This was no longer merely fantasy. What would Lieutenant Trevelyan do if he discovered her true sex? A man who impersonated an officer would be hanged from the yardarm. But there was nothing in the Articles of War about punishments for ladies. The lieutenant would have to devise his own.
Emily gazed at the midshipman in the mirror. She cut a dashing figure in the uniform and looked quite a handsome lad, if a little soft. That would not earn her any lenience from Trevelyan, though. It was that very softness he was charged with reforming.
Closing her eyes, Emily indulged her favourite fantasy.
In her mind she faced Lieutenant Trevelyan nervously as he delivered a scathing reprimand about her misconduct. He stood before her, an imposing figure in his long frock coat and fore-and-aft hat. Though she knew it was the boatswain who administered punishments, Emily liked to imagine the lieutenant caning her himself. Perhaps her misbehaviour would be such that only an officer was qualified to address it.
'The Navy, Mr Vane, is founded on discipline.'
Emily flinched as he showed her the cane and tapped the cannon with it.
'You know the position, boy.'

'Where are you...?' I started, then realised what he had in mind. 'Oh no, you can’t be serious!'
Václav didn’t speak; he just tightened his grip on my arm. I resisted, pulling away so that he practically had to drag me. I felt helpless and overpowered, though I knew there was no real danger. There were about a thousand people watching. Somehow that wasn’t much comfort.
At the centre of the square he released me. I wasn't going anywhere. He smiled at me wolfishly, tapping the pomlázka against his palm. He said something in Czech, but I didn't understand. My cheeks were burning and I glanced around me at the crowd. The band had stopped playing.
Then he put his right foot up on a box and lifted me effortlessly over his knee, my feet well off the ground. I didn't fight him. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, like a dream I was powerless to control. I grabbed his trouser-leg for balance and he coolly raised my skirt. I whimpered, but there was nothing I could do. Not even when he pulled my knickers down.

He turned the chair around and tapped the back of it with the end of the cane. 'Over the chair,' he directed. 'Raise your skirt.'
I bent down over the high back of it, mortified at the way it raised my bottom up so invitingly. It was awful to have to lift the skirt myself and I lowered my head, putting my hands on the seat of the chair. It was warm from where he'd been sitting.
Mr Sheridan was behind me and he seemed in no hurry. He adjusted my shirttail, smoothing it over my skirt to hold it in place. He ran a hand over my sore backside.
I shivered and let out a little moan.
'You will learn to apply yourself in my class. I put a great deal of work into teaching you, and I will tolerate nothing less than your best effort in return. Don't you think that is fair?'
'Yes, sir,' I mumbled, drowning in the delicious misery of the moment. I had never felt so completely controlled by a man before. I didn't want it to end.
'Six strokes,' he said. 'You will count them aloud for me. Say "Thank you, sir" after each one.'

They stopped by a gray stone wall and I ducked behind a forklift a few feet away. My obsession far outweighed any guilt I should have felt over spying on them. Something profound was at work here. It was as though some part of me knew that whatever I was about to see would change me forever.
'Is this really what you want?'
'Yes, sir,' she murmured in response, her head lowered. Sir? Who was this guy? Where had her eloquence gone? She seemed like a frightened little girl now. Her hair was hiding her face again and this time he was the one to smooth it away.
He reached into the bag and to my astonishment, took out a riding crop. She lowered her head again and he lifted her chin. Then she slowly turned around and bent over, placing her hands on a pile of bricks for support. The man raised her skirt over her hips and she wasn't wearing anything underneath. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.